Smoke of Sighs

Chapter 2: Stein, 2014

Chapter 2: Stein, 2014

"Rashed and Bingham (2014) bravely attempt to draw a clear delineation between disorder and deviance, arguing that the limit of what society may be willing to accommodate does not mark the beginning of illness"

Stein, D.J. (2014). Disorder and Deviance: Where to Draw the Boundaries? Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 21(3), 261-265.

***

KAYDEN

I fucking hate Mondays.

The U of E Department of Psychology decided to hold their staff Welcome-Back BBQ on Labour Day this year. They take their hamburgers very seriously.

Except lets just say that a couple dozen PhDs aren't exactly the most entertaining crowd.

"So, Dr. Hall." A warm hand clasps my shoulder as a familiar, hoarse voice rumbles behind me. "How's that feel, huh? PhD. Makes you feel old, right?"

Mike Zabina's cheerful, aging face is looking a bit rough around the edges these days. "Makes me feel smarter," I quip dryly.

"Heard your grant went through, son. Congrats."

"Thanks, Mike."

Mike was my master's supervisor four years or so ago before I went off to UBC for my doctorate. Now I'm back, and they put me in a dusty old office right beside him.

At least the guy has a decent sense of humour.

"Ready for your first lecture tomorrow?"

"Just a syllabus, Mike. Shouldn't be too daunting."

He takes a bite out of his loaded hot-dog and doesn't seem to either notice or care when he smears ketchup on the tip of his nose.

"So you gonna lecture in Docs and jeans, huh? You know you'll be the talk of the town."

I roll my eyes. "I'm a social psychologist, Mike," I joke. "Aren't we supposed to be anti-conformity or something?"

He snorts. "Still have that whole rebel-with-a-cause thing going for you, eh?"

That's the thing about psychologists, nosy bastards. They can't stop fucking psychoanalyzing you.

"Hey, so, that thing next Wednesday." I take a sip from a cheap bottle of beer and try not to dwell too long on the flat taste. "That... what is it? Undergrad psych mixer? We have to go to that?"

Zabina polishes off the last of his hot-dog and swipes a napkin roughly all over the lower-half of his whiskered face. "Yeah, you should. The Undergrad Psych Student's Association puts a lot of work into it. Show your face for a couple hours, talk to the kids about your research."

He missed a spot of relish at the corner of his mouth that I debate pointing out to him. "All the wannabe shrinks, huh?"

His laugh is low and grating, the product of one too many Marlboros back in the day. "It's not all bad." Something amused tugs at the edge of his salt-and-pepper bristled jaw. "And anyways, if you don't show up, Layla Mitchell will have your hide." He chuckles to himself. "The girl is persistent and runs a tight ship. Department won't be the same without her next year."

Who the fuck is Layla Mitchell? "Who?"

"She's the president of the UPSA. Fourth-year honours psych student. Good kid. We're rooting for her to stay for her MA next year but I think she has her eyes set on U of T."